


What Once Was

by thedevilchicken



Category: Inspector Morse & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anniversary, M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Post-Canon, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 18:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Lewis and Hathaway are mistaken for a couple. Lewis remembers another time this happened, when he still worked with Morse, and exactly what it led to.





	What Once Was

**Author's Note:**

  * For [M J Holyoke (wholeyolk)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/gifts).



"Well, that was awkward," Robbie says. 

He rubs the back of his neck as he gets into the too-hot car that they foolishly left out in direct sunlight over lunchtime, his fingers just underneath the collar of his tieless shirt. Then, he looks at Hathaway. He's in the driver's seat, putting on his seatbelt, looking totally unperturbed by either the heat or the conversation, but that's just the way he always is. He doesn't usually rattle very easily, or else he does a damn good job of acting like it. 

"Awkward," he says. "Don't you think?"

"Hmm?" 

Hathaway starts the car. He starts pulling out of the pub's tiny car park, back onto the road, with a crunch as gravel gives way to tarmac.

"I said: awkward, that." 

Hathaway glances at him briefly, brows raised. "Was it?" he says, which is really just like him, that not-quite-offhand, not-quite-pointed questioning thing that someone else used to do, too, once upon a time. He's not sure which of them he'd call better at it, but he supposes James hasn't had quite as much practice. Yet. He has time, if he doesn't run off to join a boyband or realise he's made a terrible mistake and go get ordained a priest. It's probably not that simple, but it's not like Robbie's ever looked into it.

There's a moment then when Robbie thinks he could say something else, and it's the first time he's thought about saying anything about it in ages. But the fact is, all this takes him back, like so much else about being back in Oxford does, and sometimes he'd like to talk about it - he thinks Hathaway would understand as much as anyone who didn't know the old sod, and probably better than half the people who did know him, but what he says is, "Well, it's no worse than when they think I'm your dad. Do I look that old to you?"

Hathaway, eyes on the road, almost smiles. "Older," he replies, and Robbie chuckles. He sometimes wonders if this is what it was like for Fred Thursday, back in the day, except James Hathaway's not Morse; they just have a thing or two in common, and Robbie sees more clearly than most where the similarities end. But they'd both probably say that the nature of human interaction being what it is, familiar scenarios cropping up in daily life are just an inevitability. Robbie understands that. But what just happened still took him back.

They'd stopped by a pub for lunch this sunny summer afternoon, mid-case, their jackets and ties abandoned on the back seat of the car like they always tell you not to if you don't want to get robbed, Robbie in his short-sleeved shirt and James' long sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The smiley waitress who brought the plate of chips out to the wooden picnic bench under the big lager-themed parasol said something about _here you are, for you and your fella_ , and Robbie looked at James and James looked quietly amused and before they could correct her, she'd vanished back inside. When she came back with a bottle of ketchup neither of them had asked for, James squeezed Robbie's thigh and called him _sweetheart_ , and Robbie chuckled into his pint of beer. 

He doesn't think of James like that, and he's damn sure James doesn't think of him like that, not that he'd exactly be upset if an attractive man found him attractive, too. But it reminded him of something else, and someone else, and somewhere else, though the _where_ of it wasn't exactly miles away. _Where_ was a different pub, by the river, on a similarly sunny summer day, though they'd still sat inside like a proper pair of idiots. At least James had the right idea, catching the breeze off the river as they ate their chips.

That other time, they'd been too hot and complaining about it and there must've been something about the way they talked because when the barmaid brought out Robbie's sandwich and basically chucked it onto the table, she said something about how if she had her way, they wouldn't serve _men like them_. Robbie almost asked her what it was she'd against coppers, but then Morse slid his hand onto his thigh and the mental lightbulb flashed. She thought they were gay. Him and Morse. They'd never had that before, at least not that he knew of. 

"Well, we didn't ask for your opinion on the matter," Morse said. He gave Robbie's knee an obvious squeeze. "Did we, darling?" 

Robbie put his hand down over Morse's. "Right," he said. "The only thing I asked for was a cheese and pickle sandwich."

The barmaid huffed and stalked away and Robbie raised his brows. " _Darling_?" he said, as they rearranged their hands. 

"Well, you don't seem like the _sweetheart_ type, Lewis," Morse replied, as if that answered the question. But it wasn't like Robbie had much idea what he was asking.

They didn't say any more, and Robbie didn't eat his sandwich. They went back to work and honestly, he thought that was the end of it, but it turned out he couldn't help but think about it. Him and Morse, that was, mistaken for a couple when all they'd been doing was having a whinge about the heat and trying to decide who was going to go back out to the car park in the beating sun and wind down the car windows so it wouldn't have turned into an oven when they got back out after lunch. Not that Morse had ordered anything, which probably meant he'd been planning to steal the chips that should've come with Robbie's sandwich but turned up sadly lacking. Or maybe he'd just been after half the sandwich. Robbie probably would've let him. Maybe that was what the barmaid had seen, he thought.

He thought about it, on and off, over the next few days. He thought about it when they were working at the station, and when they were in the car, and when they had lunch in another pub not very far away from the first one. He thought about it while he was lying awake in bed at night, too hot so he couldn't get nod off. _Him and Morse_ , he thought. They'd had the father and son thing a couple of time before, much to Morse's scowling disapproval, though that might just have been because he didn't know how anyone could see a family resemblance, or maybe he didn't like thinking he was old enough to have a detective sergeant for a son. But they'd never been taken for a couple before. At least not to their faces. He wondered how many people had thought it but just not said anything out loud. Morse, of course, wouldn't mention it again, so it wasn't like he could ask his opinion. 

About three weeks later, though, Morse sort of did bring it up. They were in a restaurant one night, following someone, trying to seem inconspicuous even thought they stuck out like a whole two-man set of sore thumbs, when Morse said, "Give me your hand." 

"Sir?"

Morse patted the tablecloth. "Give me your hand, Lewis. And smile, for God's sake. It's our anniversary." 

"It is?" 

Morse raised his brows and flicked his gaze pointedly over Robbie's shoulder, at the man they'd been following for the best part of two days. Robbie said, "Oh, _right_ ," and he put his hand on the table. Morse took it. His hand was warm and Robbie knew it was just for the job, because two policemen in suits in an Italian restaurant were probably about as inconspicuous as a clown with a bright red nose and silly shoes, but his back was to the suspect and they were sitting next to the wall, so all he had to focus on was Morse and a glass of the house red. He'd have preferred a lager, but at least the wine made him sip.

Morse kept smiling at him as they talked about the case, quietly enough that no one else could hear them. Morse kept really obviously rubbing Robbie's knuckles with his thumb and Robbie could feel his cheeks start to get warm. But somehow it must have worked because two obvious coppers ended up looking like two obvious gay blokes, and by the end of the night they'd all but closed the case. It just didn't feel very much like resolution when Robbie went home and lay awake in bed in the summer heat, thinking about what it would be like to actually ave an anniversary with Morse. Of course, they'd have to be married for that. 

It wasn't the last time they pretended. Over the years, there were other times - a hand on Robbie's knee here, an arm around his shoulders there, and, once or twice, Morse kissed him to keep their flimsy cover. It wasn't the last time anyone mistook them just out of the blue like that, either. Over the years, there were other times - mostly at the pub, or when Morse talking him into a concert. He'd ended up with a healthy appreciation for Wagner and a ridiculous attraction to his boss. 

James drives and Robbie looks out of the window and he's thinking about the case but he's also thinking about something else. He's thinking about the time he took Morse home and he invited him in and he went in, maybe because of the look on Morse's face when he asked him. They had a drink and Morse smiled tightly, awkwardly, as he put his hand on Robbie's knee. Robbie didn't try to stop him. 

"Do you know what the date is, Lewis?" Morse asked. 

Robbie nodded. "Yes, sir, I know what the date is," he replied. Then he put his hand down over Morse's. 

That was seven years to the day since the strange night in the restaurant. Neither of them said the word _anniversary_ , but Robbie likes to believe they were both thinking it. He knows he was, and Morse didn't ask him to tell him what the date was. He knew. He was checking if _he_ knew, and it wasn't just _August 6th_.

They listened to a record and Morse sat there with his shoes off and his feet propped up on the coffee table and they had another drink, and another one, until it was obviously Robbie couldn't drive home. They fell asleep on the terrible settee Morse had been meaning to replace almost as long as he'd known him. And, in the morning, they went back to work. It felt like they'd crossed a threshold, though. It wasn't the last time they fell asleep. A few times, it was even actually in Morse's bed, without their ties on. A few times, Morse might have even actually said his name. God, he misses him.

He's not sure why he came back to Oxford when everything reminds him of Morse. It's not like he didn't know that beforehand, or like he's the only one who remembers him. And sometimes he'll run into someone who'll remember the cover story instead of the DCI and his sergeant who drove the car sometimes; he tells them Morse died and they tell him they're sorry, like they would with anyone who's lost a partner. He did, he thinks. He lost a lot more than a DCI, at any rate. He lost more than a friend.

James drives. He'd understand if he told him, Robbie thinks. It wouldn't be a song and dance and they wouldn't have to talk about it again if he didn't want to, but the moment passes with the Oxford roads outside the window on the way back to town. But he's confident it's not the last chance he'll ever have to talk about it. When the time's right, he'll know, like he knew with Morse.

The anniversary's coming up again. Maybe they'll have a drink and he'll tell him all about Endeavour Morse. 

But, for now, he keeps him to himself for another day.


End file.
